


Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by otherwiseestella



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Roxy, Banter, Best Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Companionable Snark, Danger Kink, Eggsy likes to be hit, F/M, Face Slapping, Fighting, Fleeting references to past abuse, Friendship, Gen, Inappropriate Erections, Kingsman Training, Light BDSM, M/M, Masochism, Pain Kink, Punching, Roxy is extremely angry, Sparring, Swearing, Undernegotiated Kink, eggsy unwin - Freeform, new kink, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: The first time Eggsy ever gets a hard-on from getting hit, it’s because Roxy fucking Morton decks him one in the sparring ring.It ain’t exactly that straightforward, but that’s about the gist of it.---Eggsy learns he might quite like getting brought to his knees, Roxy gets through a shitty day, and everyone learns a little bit about how to deal with unwanted feelings. Then they goe home to watch Bake Off.A little plot-bunny about how and why Eggsy discovers one particular type of submission wouldn't leave me alone. No real smut in this, and it's blink-and-you'll-miss-it Roxy/Eggsy - mostly it's pals helping each other out by taking a good beating then watching Bake Off.





	Hit Me With Your Best Shot

The first time Eggsy ever gets a hard-on from getting hit, it’s because Roxy fucking Morton decks him one in the sparring ring.

It ain’t exactly that straightforward, but that’s about the gist of it. 

She’s fuming, turns out her girl’s been boning some bloke who thought it would be funny to send Roxy the pictures. Fucking dickhead. And an idiot – Roxy’s bird swallowed the lie that she’s a tailor, must have passed it on. 

Eggsy don’t imagine Cedric Ellis will be able to get a credit card, rent a car or buy a house for years after this, and that’s if Merlin manages to talk Roxy down into ‘non-direct action’ and reminds her about shit like civilian causalities and wasting resources. 

Right now she looks actually murderous.

She’s furious. Angrier than he’s ever seen her, angrier than she was about Valentine and the sim-cards. It’s a good look on her. She’s proper scary like this, all clipped consonants and her shoulders wide, like she’s making herself as big as possible. Her eyes are like gun sights, barely any pupil, and she’s flushed.

She’d grabbed him out of his office, her hand round his arm like a restraint and he’s gonna have bruises where her fingers dug in. He could see, then, that she was fighting back tears, that she was absolutely not going to let him know what was going on before they got to the gym and for once in his life could he walk first and ask questions later, for fuck’s sake.

And Rox almost never swore like that, all gritted teeth like she were grinding it out, so he does.

It’s once they get into the gym that she breaks down. 

‘What sort of useless fucking cunt does that to someone? He’s a fucking coward, should have come to see me, said it to my face.’

Eggsy understands what Harry means when he says that sometimes, discretion is the better part of valour and so he doesn’t point out that yeah, Cedric’s a cunt, but it’s Susie, her ex, who was actually getting her end off with someone else whilst going out with Roxy. 

He also doesn’t point out that no way was Cedric going to pop round to Roxy’s to let her know – or that it’s a good thing he didn’t, because he’s seen Rox with a handgun, she’s the most accurate shot in thirty years of Kingsman records at close range. It would have been one and done for Cedric, and yeah, he had it coming but Ellie’s always been a wet blanket and honestly, she’s well rid of her.

What he does say, instead of any of that, is ‘come on then, Rox. You gonna hit me or what?’

‘Hit you?’ She looks at him like he’s gone absolutely mental.

‘We’re in the sparring ring and you look like you wanna deck someone. And you know I can take you, yeah, so let’s go.’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t, Eggsy. Not when I’m… fucking… not when I’m like this.’

She wipes her dripping nose down her arm. He goes to speak but she sticks her hand up, takes a breath. 

‘I don’t want to spar with you. It’s not safe. I’m too fucked. I want to march round to his and cut his dick off and make him keep his eyes open whilst I do it, and them make him watch me feed it to his fucking stupid cat.’

Eggsy makes what he hopes is a sympathetic noise, and not one of actual terror at the way Rox’s eyes light up when she says it.

‘Rox’, he starts, then swallows it when she looks at him. 

Thing is, he’s been hit a lot. Like a lot, far more than is probably average for a bloke his age, even if hanging out with Kingsman agents makes it feel like he’s never seen action in his life. He’s good at taking beatings, not that that’s a skill to be proud of, but he is, and more pertinently he can take Roxy, knows her weak spots, knows the best ways to try and take her down. And if it’s gonna make her feel better, then he’s game. She can do her worst.

And he, like, knows anger. Better than he ever lets anyone see because he don’t do that no more, he ain’t never gonna be like Dean or his twats, he’s never going ballistic at nobody, it’s no way to get anything done and it don’t work. 

But he still fights with that feeling, still goes on runs twice as long as usual when Harry or Merlin’s doing his head in, still comes home and has to stop himself slamming a door and just yelling. Everyone always thinks he’s just vain, all those hours in the Kingsman gyms and yeah, sure, that’s part of it, he loves the look on Harry’s face – but he also has to get the fight out of himself some nights, and it can take fucking hours. 

So he figures he knows what Rox needs. A willing victim, just for a bit, and it ain’t like he’s gonna let himself get hurt badly. He’d make her stop before he let her do anything she’d regret.

‘It’s me, Rox’, he says when he speaks again. ‘When was the last time you beat me? Fucking months ago. Don’t reckon you could now, you’ll be sloppy ‘cos you’re pissed off. So come on, do your fucking worst mate, yeah?’

And with that, he slips into the ring proper, under the ropes.

She follows him. She looks for a second as if she won’t, as if good sense will prevail. There’s something funny in the air, too, something thick and un-named and it sure as hell doesn’t bode well. 

Eggsy swallows, bobs his shoulders, centres himself.

When he hears her speak she’s right behind him, must have slipped into the sparring ring so quiet that he hadn’t realised. Her voice is like nothing he’s ever heard come out of her before.

‘You really think this is a good idea? You really think you can take me like this? I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Eggsy. You can do your worst, whatever, but first. First, I want three. Three clear hits.’

Three clear hits. That ain’t a bargain. It comes out her mouth like silk and steel, the way she says it quiet, like it’s a reasonable thing to ask to deck your colleague three times before he fights back. The control in her voice, like ice over a river. She’s furious. 

But she needs it. And she’s been a good friend, through thick and thin, put up with enough of Eggsy’s shite. 

That, and there’s something about that voice that’s making the back of his neck prickle. The consonants laced with fury, the way she stands behind him, commanding. Like she assumes he’s going to go along with it. Like the choice is an illusion.

‘Two,’ he says, and it’s out his mouth before he can bite it back.

Swear down, he can feel her smile.

‘I’m not cutting you a deal. You can say yes, or you can say no and fuck off, but I’m not playing, Eggsy.’

And she’s not. There’s so much – need in her voice, something raw and just off the edge of desperate. She does need this – needs to take a swing at a proxy because none of the twats who hurt her could take it. She needs a place to put it, with someone whose jaw won’t shatter, with someone who knows enough to leave the ring in one piece.

‘Alright then,’ he says, almost silent. ‘Three, and then I’m taking you down. Ain’t gonna go easy on you, either.’

 

The first one, she slaps him. She’s standing to one side of him, takes ages maximising her angle and it’s horrible, the creeping anticipation whilst she lines herself up, rolls on the balls of her feet, plots the arc her arm will take. 

He wants to tell her to hurry up, but she’s got a face like murder and he knows his place in all this. 

To shut up and take it.

And as soon as he’s had that thought, soon as he realises that there’s a little bit of his head that’s actually, maybe, interested in that, his body relaxes minutely.

That’s when she slaps him.

The noise rings out like a shot, and the force of it flings his head to one side, though he rolls his neck into it, lets his weight shift back so there’s no chance of whiplash.

He might have a handprint along his jawline though, and that’ll take some explaining, because Kingsman sparring’s pretty rules-light, but bruising marks to the face are usually out unless they’ve let Medical know first.

It burns. It absolutely smarts, that hot-prickle that slaps leave, and the slight buzz in his ear because it was hard enough to do that, too.

He wants to look at her. Can hear the minute alteration in her breathing, can hear that she’s shaking her hand out. She’s good at hitting, but nobody slaps on mission and it canes.

He wants to look at her but he realises with a jolt that that ain’t part of the game.

That it’ll go better – whatever that means right now – if he keeps his eyes down and his mouth shut, and if he don’t let his own hand come up to cradle his jaw.

She wants him to stand and take it, and so he’s going to. Because she’s a mate, his brain supplies. Because you owe her one. And then, quiet, so he almost can’t hear it… because it turns out, you like it.

She stalks round the ring like a tiger eyeing up some stupid deer, weakest of the lot.

She’s muttering, but it ain’t for him, ain’t his concern. Something about Cedric and Susie and how she’d fucked her better than he ever could, how she hoped she couldn’t ever come again, how she hoped she scrolled through all the pictures she’d taken with Rox and fucking wept.

He lets her go on for a sec, reckons better out than in, but then.

‘That one gonna count, or was that just the warm-up?’ The taunt is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He wants her back in the room. He wants her to get angry again, because anger burns out clean. Resentment like that festers, don’t do no good to dwell on it.

Roxy doesn’t reply. Only sign she’s heard is a toss of her head, the squaring of her jaw, just fractionally – and then she lands a punch, right across his mouth, and he’s on his knees.

Fucking hell it hurts. Like being underwater, whole body suddenly full of adrenaline. Ain’t nobody floored him like that for years, and he doesn’t want to think about who did it last. Fucking shit it fucking hurts.

He runs a tongue over his teeth, gingerly, and even though he ain’t lost any, his mouth’s hot with blood.

He spits it out on the floor before he can think about it, and he winces when he hears her tut, as if she can’t believe what a little twat he is. As if she might just ask him to clean it up.

She’s split his lip, and there’s blood running down his chin, bright red and welling. Must have caught against a canine too because the rip’s a bit jagged, and when he runs his tongue over it the sting of the spit over open flesh makes him keen, low in his throat.

For a bust lip it hurts worse than it should, and for a second, he reckons he can feel tears behind his eyes. 

He lifts himself back up, sinuous, easy, but the breath’s left his lungs and he feels adrenaline thread through his veins, feels like he wants to turn round to Rox and whinge about it, tell her it ain’t fair. 

There’s something, else, too, under the throb of his lip and the ache of his jaw and the pull of his hand to his face that he keeps ignoring.

He can feel his pulse, knows his heart’s kicked up, so it takes him a second to realise the reason he can feel it so acutely is that he’s…hard.

He’s sprung. He’s popped a stiffie and he ain’t even in gym clothes, just regular, unforgiving suit trousers.

Fucking hell. He licks the split lip again, the sluggish pulse of blood down his chin. Shifts his balance back into ready position. Rox ain’t said anything. 

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then she says ‘You felt that one, didn’t you?’

And he knows it isn’t a question really, but he can’t help it. 

‘Yeah’, he says, and then, ‘fucking hell, Rox.’

She breathes out at that, like she’s just remembered where they are a bit.

‘One more to go,’ she says. And her voice doesn’t waver, she isn’t asking permission or backing down or any less angry but she does sound more level, like it’s really working.

‘Better make it count then’, he says through a thick lip, and in the tiny quiet afterwards he realise she must have clocked what’s going on.

She whistles out through her teeth, and just when he thinks she’s going to make some smart remark, she takes a quick step towards him, and knees him in the solar plexus as hard as she possibly can.

Intellectually, he knows what happens. They get a full anatomy course, only theirs comes with ‘and what happens when you hit it’ bits, so he’s fully aware that it’s just winding, and the nerves in the sympathetic GI system making a scene.

But he’s on his knees for the second time in two minutes and his fucking idiot brain thinks he gonna die because he can’t breath, and he’s got blood on his good shirt and he feels like a cunt for not fighting back and worse for agreeing to this and they aren’t tears, they fucking won’t be because he’s not letting Rox see that she’s bothered him.

And he’s still hard. He’s still hard, and it ain’t the hitting, not exactly. And he’s got a danger kink bigger than a double decker, he wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t, but it ain’t the adrenaline either.

‘And that’s three. Thank you Eggsy. You…,’ Roxy sounds like she’s searching for words, ‘you took that remarkably well. And you were right you know, I do feel better.’

There’s a little pause and he doesn’t move. He could get up – should maybe, give her a hug or chat about it or whatever but he feels… like he’s quite happy on the ground thanks.

He feels a bit small, weirdly. Feels his body, everything heightened, and his blood’s still singing. He feels like he’d rather stay on the floor for a bit, even though Roxy’s done and that’s it, he’s taken what she wanted to give him and she’s thanked him, and it’s over.

He’s not sure, some bit of his brain whispers, that he wants it to be over.

And fuck that, honestly, that’s something to be explored when he isn’t fucking bleeding and winded and trying to work out what to do about it being two pm on a Wednesday and him being hard in his trousers in the gym.

‘Eggsy, did you…?’ She trails off again. She sounds more like herself now, like the fight’s gone out of her.

‘Did you want to go and shower and then slope off? I’ll buy pizza and wine, least I can do. We can go and binge Bake Off, if you like?’

And he would swear down that is not the question she’s actually asking, or at least not the one that she wants to ask. She’s a spy, she’s not an idiot, and what just happened weren’t what they’d planned.

He’d swear down, too, that the pink in her cheeks is too much for anger and exercise. She’s worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and he’s seen her do that before, ribbed her about how it used to mean Susie’d sent her a dirty snap on Snapchat.

Maybe she’d liked it, too, whatever the fuck that was, but he’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than ask her.

‘Yeah, sounds good, but wait for me to go and get an icepack from medical.’

‘I’ll get it’, she says. ‘Save them asking questions. You’re never as subtle as you think.’

He waits, for some reason, until she walks out the ring before he raises his head. Catches the back of her ponytail disappearing through the double doors, flicks her the bird.

If he’s quick, he can rub one out in the shower before she gets back.

Harry’s gonna go mental when he sees his face, and they’re gonna need to have a chat, probably, because Jesus Fucking Christ, that was a lot. He’ll be glad of Netflix and wine on Roxy’s unreasonably comfortable sofa. Maybe a blanket. He feels, suddenly, a bit like he’d like a hug.

He walks out the ring and into the shower, and if Roxy’s hand is tender over his jaw, his lip when she gets back, her eyes bright like she’s checking out her handiwork, well, neither of them are gonna comment on it, are they?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading this silly little plot bunny!  
> Please do leave any comments, I want to scream about Eggsy being hit in his pretty little face with people.


End file.
